


Just some space shenanigans

by Galaxy_Rider



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fuck you Caleb lmao, Gen, Other, Science Fiction, Tentacles, This Is STUPID, just a couple of space bros, nothing really sexual happens dont worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-05-12 19:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19235887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxy_Rider/pseuds/Galaxy_Rider
Summary: Caleb and Certo, just a couple of buffoons in space blowing stuff up and getting into trouble (well mostly caleb does because hes a dumb slut lol)





	1. The First Tentacle Part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terribleshipsandsadshit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terribleshipsandsadshit/gifts).



“I can’t believe we took this job,” Certo muttered into their helmet, striding down the hallway just ahead of Caleb. He looked around the ship as they walked through it, peeking into abandoned rooms, probably looking for something to steal. It wasn’t really understandable, considering how much the two of them were getting paid, but they supposed it was just a habit of his. 

“So where is this thing we’re collecting the jizz of?” He asked after ducking out of yet another trashed room. 

Certo shrugged and frowned at him from inside their helmet. The blueprint projected in one corner of their vision did little to help. “I’m not quite sure,” they admitted after a moment, “but it’s not jizz, it’s a skin secretion like a hagfish or like our sweat.”

“So this dude’s getting high off alien sweat?” He seemed disappointed, peering into a new room through the doorway. “That’s not very sexy.” There was something in his tone Certo didn’t like, a twist of curiosity that could only lead to trouble. 

“Yeah, he probably dilutes it though,” they tried to warn, “the uncut stuff can mess you up.” They paused, waiting for him to pay attention. When he looked over at them, they took a sterner tone. “Don’t take your mask off; I don’t want to deal with you getting eaten or something.”

He nodded, obviously only half-registering their words, and moved ahead. Certo sighed, giving up on trying to get him to behave. Honestly, they didn’t know why they tried in the first place. If he got eaten by a huge alien monster it would be all the better for them. 

After a few more minutes of walking, the two of them came to a closed door, the first one they had seen on the ship. “That’s a good sign,” Caleb said eagerly, pulling his gun out and shooting the magnetic lock. 

With a rusty shriek, the door slid open, exposing a large, dim room. Pale tentacles squirmed up the walls and onto the ceiling, nearly covering the floor. Caleb rushed in before Certo could get out any sort of warning, and reluctantly they followed. 

Slimy, fleshy bits squished under their boots, and they experimentally ground one under their heel. It pulled back, away from their feet, but slowly moved back to rest across their laces. More similar appendages started to writher towards them, a few lifting their tips up off the floor. Certo wrinkled their nose. 

“Jesus Christ, these things are disgusting.” They stamped on another tentacle, twisting their boot heel until the thing came apart under the rubber. “But I honestly don’t know why I keep getting surprised by this kind of thing anymore.” Trying to remain calm, they pulled a gun from their belt, firing a laser into the appendage getting a little too friendly with their pant leg. 

It shriveled and dried, crumbling in an instant. But there were plenty more to take its place, squirming around Certo’s boots and raising themselves up to wave lazily in front of their helmet. They oozed pink goop, whatever their employer had wanted so badly, and the readout on their visor indicated some kind of pheromone. 

Dragging the lip of the container along one tentacle, they started the collection process, working away for several minutes, gathering probably a years worth of goop. If they hadn’t been getting paid a small fortune, they would have left and ignored their employers calls. 

“Caleb!” They looked around, suddenly noticing the absence of any swearing or sexual commentary. If there was any way for him to get fucked up and high on tentacle juice, he would do it, they knew well enough by now.


	2. Certo gets beat up ://

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The violence gets a little more graphic in this one, ladies and worms

Rough hands jerked their helmet off their head, the metal piece towards the bottom of the visor clipping their chin hard. Blood started running from their split lip, dripping onto their lap as they ducked their head. 

“Jesus, hmm,” she crooned, jerking Certo’s face up towards her by the hair, “it’s been a while, huh Captain?” They looked up at her blearily, focusing after a moment on grey curly hair and two pairs of bright yellow eyes.

“Pletcher,” they coughed, voice sounding weak outside their helmet, “how’s your wife?” They knew it would provoke her, they knew it, and they knew they would regret it, but they couldn’t help it. Provoking her was the only way they felt they had any sort of control. 

A punch landed in their stomach, their body armor doing very little against the blunt force. Certo coughed blood upwards, unable to double over because of the grip on their head. Droplets of blood rained back down on their cheeks, their arms jerked hard against their restraints. 

“Heh, I’m going to really enjoy this,” she hissed, her pointed nose barely brushing their cheek. “You enjoyed it yourself, back in the day, huh?” She pulled Certo’s hair harder, tilting their head back so it exposed their throat, and she licked a stripe up their jaw with her forked tongue. 

They shuddered with disgust, jerking their head away from her as far as it would go, which was not nearly far enough. “I never enjoyed it,” they grunted, fists tightening on the armrests. They hadn’t, they hadn’t liked it, the feeling of complete and utter dominance over another person. Not at all. 

“Ohh, Captain,” she murmured, taking a knife from somewhere out of their view, “sure you did, hmm? You liked it, huh, the power, the control you had.” Her face was still very close, cool breath lingering on Certo’s skin, making it crawl.

“No,” they breathed. The tip of the blade dug into the under part of their jawbone, parting the skin. 

Pletcher dragged it, scraping, along the bone towards their chin, following the motion with her tongue. In the worst way possible, it reminded Certo of Caleb. Though, they supposed Caleb would be the one getting cut. 

“Ooh, yes, don’t you lie to me, Captain,” she whispered back, “tell me everything, and once I’ve broken you into little pieces, heh, I’ll turn you in to the higher ups and collect that tasty little bounty on your head, huh?”

With a jerk, their knee connected hard with the muscle of her inner thigh. She grunted, taking a step quick back, scowling. Certo ducked their head, looking up through their hair at her, curling in on themself as much as they could. 

They had regretted it immediately. It would have been better to wait, to play along until she got sloppy, she made a mistake, and they could make a better, more calculated move. But that knife had hurt; they would probably need stitches. It wasn’t a good excuse, but they couldn’t come up with a better one while they were bleeding out.

“Huh, Captain, you’re going to regret doing that.” She grabbed their hair again, yanking their head back and to one side, exposing their bloodied face and neck. 

Her jaw opened wide, wider than any human could, and she bit into Certo, just at the start of their neck. Her teeth couldn’t get far through their body armor, but it was certainly enough to hurt. Certo cried out, panting, trying to jerk their body away. Hands scrabbling on the armrests, feet jerking, eyes rolling in their head. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Certo would know that tone anywhere, the tense smarminess that barely covered some real rage. Relief nearly made them go limp, only the intense pain all over their body prevented it. 

The two of them made eye contact, real eye contact for the first time, over Pletcher’s wild hair. Without any visor in the way. His eyes seemed brighter than they did when they looked at him in their helmet. Caleb blinked, and the gun in his hand fired. 

Cool, green liquid splattered across their face. She tensed for just a moment, then went slack over them, heavy with muscle. Certo managed to pull away, feeling the flesh of their neck tear unpleasantly, her hand dropping from their hair. 

There was a beat of quiet, filled only with Certo’s panting. Everything ached, and blood was still flowing freely. 

“Can I get a hand here?” They asked finally, still sounding weak outside of their helmet. 

“Yeah, of course. God, it’s like walking in on you naked.” He shoved Pletcher’s corpse off of them, kicking her off to the side, carefully not looking at Certo’s face. Awkwardly, he moved around behind them, cutting their hands loose and then handing them their helmet. They appreciated his rare show of respect. 

They huffed out a breath, wiping as much blood off their neck as they could. “Yeah, it is.” They couldn’t think of anything else to say; their head hurt too badly. Then, in a clumsy, but still practiced motion, they set their helmet back on and locked it into place. Only then did they lift their face. 

Caleb helped them stand. “I found your jacket, it’s in one of the entrance rooms,” he told them. 

“Did you kill everyone on the ship?” Certo asked because they felt like they needed to talk to stay conscious. Focussing only on the pain only made their vision go dark around the edges. 

“What, no,” he said. There was a pause. “Well, not everyone, just most of them.” He had an arm slung under their shoulders, and though they appreciated the support, they knew as soon as they could stand on their own nobody would be able to touch them for months. 

“Alright,” Certo muttered, looking at him through the safety of their visor, “are you ok? You didn’t get hit or anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” he assured them, leading the way through the halls back to where their ship was docked. “I mean, I fucked my way in, if that’s what you meant.”

An exasperated sigh left Certo. “What made you think that was what I thought? Jesus, you’re a whore.”

“I’m your whore,” he said, pausing. taking a stolen military bracelet from his pocket to open one of the doors. 

“I think I’m going to pass out.” The pain wasn’t anything they hadn’t felt before, they’d had worse for sure, but the adrenaline was fading fast and the feeling of safety wasn’t doing them any favors. 

“Yeah I was waiting for that to happen. Not in a weird way though.” He was mostly carrying them, shouldering more and more weight was their steps faltered. 

“God, just, just don’t do anything weird to me while I’m out.” One leg buckled underneath them, then the other. 

“What else is going to happen; I’ve already seen you naked.” Caleb helped them down so their head wouldn’t smash into the ground. 

“Christ, don’t remind me.”


	3. Tentacles part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb is a slut rip :/

They finally saw him, held upright by tentacles that had started to push their way up his shirt, having somehow already unzipped his jacket. The dumbass had taken his mask off, and was pretty obviously off his ass on whatever they had been sent to collect. His tongue lolled out one side of his mouth, expression honestly obscene. 

“Jesus, you whore,” they muttered, stomping their way over to him, “you couldn’t wait until we were back on the ships and you could boot up some simulation?”

They sent a laser through the tentacle sneaking up his thigh, and another close by his head. Neither Caleb or the tentacles really reacted. One slimy appendage wound itself around his neck, squeezing so hard he gasped, and the tip snuck into his mouth. 

Certo couldn’t shoot at the tentacle without the possibility of hitting him, and they weren’t confident enough in their aim while a tentacle monster tried to envelop them. So they settled for shooting a full charge into what appeared to be the center of the creature, a mass of squirming tentacles too dense to see into, shoved into the corner of the chamber. 

The thing shrieked and shrunk back for only an instant, all the time they needed to grab Caleb by one of his legs and yank him free of the monster. Their boot connected with the one around his neck, the heavy treads grinding it into the floor until it crumbled into dust. Grunting with the effort, they hauled the half-conscious dumbass onto their shoulders and took off. 

A thin tentacle lashed out, wrapping around their ankle just before they could reach the door. Certo’s head cracked against the inside of their visor, and Caleb landed like a corpse on top of them. Both of them groaned. Caleb coughed weakly, and Certo shoved him off of their aching chest. 

“C-Certo?” His voice was slurred. One hand weakly wiped at the slime around his mouth. “What’s happening?” 

“Caleb,” they gasped, struggling to kick off the tentacles wrapping around their legs, “get out of the room.” A burning sensation filled their torso, and the readout on the inside of their visor flickered. 

“What? What are you talking about?” He seemed more awake, hauling himself up onto his hand and knees. Panting, eyes wide, he looked back into the room at the squirming mass of tentacles. 

“Just move!” Certo followed his gaze, reaching back for their gun and kicking at one thick appendage around their ankle, dislodging it. The creature at the center seemed to be regrouping, drawing back slightly to launch a new attack. 

They jerked forward, out of the tentacles grasp, scrambling to their feet and shoving Caleb in front of them. Firing wildly over their shoulder, they half-carried him out into the door and down the corridor. Pain blossomed up their chest and their breath came faster and more ragged the more they moved. 

He eventually got his feet under him, sprinting ahead and around a corner ahead of Certo, only stopping when they had reached a more familiar part of the ship, only a few meters from the airlock. He set his hands on his knees, panting hard, and Certo leaned heavily against the wall. Their ribs ached, but at least not badly enough to be broken. 

“You dumbass,” they admonished, “we need to get you to a medical station before you grow a second head or something.”

“Yeah, well—oh fuck I—“ Caleb started retching, vomiting the goop he had been filled with onto the floor, falling onto his hands and knees. 

Certo crouched next to him, collecting some, filling up the rest of the container and hoping their employer wouldn’t mind a little bile mixed in. After they had filled the flask, they carefully sealed it and set it aside, then turned back to watch Caleb throw up. They felt some sympathy for him, but honestly he kind of deserved it for taking his mask off. 

Awkwardly, they patted his back. “I’ll go get you some water, when we get into the ship,” they assured him, standing. 

Carefully stepping around the puddle of vomit, they helped him to his feet, and patted one of his cheeks. It was all they could think to do, and they made a mental note to spend extra time disinfecting that glove later. 

Again, they ended up half-carrying Caleb through the airlock and down to the medical station. They made doubly sure to face him away from them, but he didn’t throw up again.

“Hey, I’m alright, really,” he assured them, pale skinned and breathing hard. 

“Well, ok then,” they replied, letting go of his jacket and watching him slump to the ground. After a moment of standing over him they helped him up again, sighing quietly into their helmet. 

More and more, they were getting frustrated with his bullshit. The way he would just flat out ignore a problem was understandable, sure, but still incredibly aggravating when it involved his negligible sense of self-worth. They didn’t know how to get him to understand that he mattered, other than to shaking him and tell him to grow up. 

As they disinfected the few scrapes he had, and after they had completed a full body scan just to make sure, they sent him off to bed. Probably to snort something that would kill brain cells. 

Certo went to bed, checking to make sure their bruised ribs weren’t actually broken, and were at least slightly gladdened to find not even a crack. They laid back against their pillows with a long sigh, rubbing their eyes. 

The next morning they knocked gently on his bedroom door, even though the aching all over their body setting them in a bad mood. Caleb slid the door open with a raspy “hey sexy”. Certo’s fists tightened at their sides. It was maybe nine in the morning and he was already pissing them off. 

“How do you feel today?” They asked, wanting the situation to just diffuse, but knowing it was really a long shot. This dumb bitch was always getting himself into trouble and then brushing it off. 

“Ah, who cares?”

Certo jerked him out of the doorway and slammed him up against a wall, lifting him nearly off his feet, gloves gripping the front of his jacket. They felt a little pang of guilt, seeing him wince at the impact, but mostly they just felt anger. “I really don’t have time for your shit right now,” they hissed, their helmet nearly pressed against his nose. 

Recovering quickly, Caleb shot back, “Ooh, what are you gonna do, punish me?” 

They shoved him away, disgusted. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you.” He smirked, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. “And what’s the big deal anyway? We got what we came for.”

Certo threw up their hands and turned away. A sudden urge to start throwing punches nearly took over, but they just huffed into their helmet. “Sure, but we almost died!” It was hard to raise their voice enough to be heard at a shouting volume outside of their suit, but goddamn it they tried their hardest. 

They looked back over at him, at the bandages and bruising around his neck, the dark circles under his eyes. It was obvious he hadn’t really rested when he had passed out, and they wondered if the goop he had ingested were affecting him more than they knew.

Certo’s voice grew even softer through their helmet. “You almost died, Caleb.” From his scoff they knew he was going to brush their concern off, and they didn’t want to push him, but they just couldn’t figure out a way to get him to care about himself. They couldn’t just tell him, because he was a stupid asshole, but still they had to try something.


	4. Bar Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certo can't take the helmet off or leave Caleb behind and that makes things awkward

Certo watched the woman walk away, all short flowing skirts and wild green hair. Their eyes travelled lazily around the bar, safe to watch everyone from behind their visor. Briefly, the woman looked back, three-eyed and entirely alluring, and Certo tippled their head just slightly to one side, considering. 

“You gonna smash?” Caleb was completely trashed, but he had managed to drag them out with him “to have a good time”. They couldn’t understand why he always felt like he had to be blacked out to be having a good time. But they felt like they needed to keep an eye on him after the last time he had gone out on his own. 

They watched her walk away, watched as she shook her hair out of its bun. “I haven’t decided yet,” they replied. 

The woman glanced back again, chewing on her bottom lip. It was almost like she was trying too hard, and Certo wondered if it was a trap. At the particular bar they were at, it probably was. They wondered if it was worth it. 

“Well, I’d let her fuck me,” Caleb announced to the bar. 

“You’d let pretty much anyone fuck you, dude. You’ve got pretty low standards.”

“Yeah, well,” he shot back, “maybe your standards are too high.”

They rolled their eyes at him, and gestured the woman over with one finger. Eagerly, she took a seat next to Certo, ordering something exotic-sounding from the bartender. She leaned forward so her shirt billowed open at the top, boldly setting a hand on their knee and smiling. Her full lips were painted a deep blue. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” Her voice was heavily accented, from the outer rim it sounded like. 

Certo put an apologetic smile in their voice. “I don’t drink, sorry, I’m looking after my friend.” They jerked a thumb at Caleb, who had gotten up to drunkenly grind on some poor hapless guy. 

“Your friend there seems to be doing alright,” she murmured, leaning in even closer. Swirling her drink with one hand, she trailed the fingers of her other up to Certo’s shoulder.

They obliged her, settling their arm on the counter to face her better, cocking their head at her. Playful, she hooked a finger up under the rim of their helmet and tugged them forward. All fluttering eyelashes and exposed skin and long legs. 

It was tempting, truly. They caught her wrist in one gloved hand, not knocking it away. “Careful,” they warned lowly. If she got carried away, and if they let her, all hell could break loose. 

She just smiled and took a sip of her drink, lime green tongue snaking out to pull the straw to her mouth. All three of her eyes were lidded. She set her drink down briefly to run her hand through her wild curls. 

“I’m Anazraph,” she told them, smile widening, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“You can call me Certo.” They tapped their gloved fingers idly on the bar top, metal clicking on wood, studying her face. “And I’m just finished with a job, out to celebrate.” While they certainly hadn’t lied to her, calling their little outing a “celebration” was stretching it for sure. 

“Mysterious,” she observed, “I like that.”

The fingers of her other hand still tugged gently at the rim under their helmet. Certo brushed their thumb up across her palm, distracting her enough to be able to move her hand away. 

“What’s under that thing anyway?” Her tone was playful, but they knew it was a serious enough question. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” they answered, absolutely not about to pull their helmet off in the middle of a seedy bar full of bounty hunters. 

“Yes, I would like to know, in fact.” Her hand pulled out of their grip so she could set it higher on their thigh. She took another drink. 

Quickly they checked and confirmed that, yes, Caleb was still dancing provocatively, and no, things hadn’t escalated too far. Maybe for just a few minutes, they thought, they could duck into a bathroom. But the glazed look in Caleb’s eyes decided for the. He had no fucking clue what way happening around him, and they couldn’t leave him alone like that. 

“Maybe another time,” they offered, “when I’m less distracted.” They leaned in, nearly touching her with their visor, and tilted their helmet to one side. “And I can focus on you completely.”

A light laugh, high and squeaking adorably. “You romantic,” she complimented, “alright, another time then. But only because I have such a curious nature.”

Taking their hand, she slipped her hand up alongside theirs, tapping their bracelets together on the inner part of their arms. Certo’s buzzed with a new transmission sequence, and they nodded once at her. 

“I’ll see you around,” she assured him, standing so she stood between their legs while she paid for her drink, one hand still on their thigh. 

Certo leaned back, taking the sight of her in, the wild hair and the big eyes. Her hand trailed higher, and they didn’t stop her. 

Rolling their head to the side, they checked on Caleb again. He was fine, or as fine as he could be while completely off his face. He was dancing hard, obviously panting, looking pale under the bright colored lights. 

Last chance, they thought, glancing back at Anazraph, and her hand snaking its way up under the hem of their jacket. She was tempting, really, but their responsibilities weighed too heavily, and they weren’t about to accept a hand job in front of a crowded bar. 

So they caught her wrist just as it reached their pants button, brought it up to their eye level. “Next time,” they assured her. 

She only winked with her lower left eye, walking away without saying anything. Certo sighed, watching her walk away for a moment before turning back to Caleb where he was dancing, propping their helmet up on one hand, elbow on the bar top. 

“Come dance with me!” He called over the music, gesturing wildly for them to join him with both arms. Certo sighed again, stood, and started to make their way over to the dance floor.


	5. A sort of sequel to Certo gets beat up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst? kind of? I invested too much time into this shit to just abandon it

Certo hadn’t left their room in nearly a week, not since they had gotten patched up. At first, Caleb worried they were doing something self-destructive, something he would have done, but he couldn’t hear anything from their room. So he just sat around, too anxious to be really bored, to really get anything done. 

They weren’t the type to do something stupid, he reasoned, they don’t get fucked up or go to bars alone. But what did they do then? He had never seen them so low in all the years he’d known them, and they were the ones to pull him back up. 

After five days he figured they had probably starved to death, so he carefully made his way down the hall. Their door slid open, and he realized that in all the days they’d hidden away, their door had probably been unlocked. Maybe they had been waiting for him to come in, or maybe they really had died. 

Caleb couldn’t see jack shit in their room. He peered in bending at the waist and putting a hand on the doorframe, jerking his head back when Certo appeared in front of him, looming. In his bent position, they stood over a head taller than him, visor black and blank, giving no hint as to how they were feeling. Only his own face stared back down at him, wide-eyed. 

“You look like shit,” were the first words out of his mouth. Their sweater was rumbled, their jeans ripped at the knees, exposing their body armor underneath. They had on a pair of fuzzy socks. He couldn’t actually see any part of their body, but they gave off enough of a “I look like shit under here” vibe. There was no way they had healed their face in just five days while staying in their room. 

They didn’t respond, just stared down at him as he straightened. Their posture gave away nothing, their helmet passive as always. If they wanted to, Certo could become completely blank, unreadable. Normally, it would have made Caleb angry, maybe a little turned on, but they were too worried. 

But as soon as he reached out an inquiring hand towards them, they grabbed his wrist before it could get close. It hurt, probably more than they had meant it to. Still silent, they shoved him away and their door slid closed. This time it was locked for real. 

“Hey! What gives?” Caleb thumped the door with his fist. Nothing came from the other side of the door; it was as if Certo had just disappeared. 

At least he knew that they were alive. Damnit, at least he dealt with his problems unhealthily in front of them. He knew they had to be keeping him in the dark about something, but at the same time he didn’t want to get in the way of how they handled their own shit. 

Certo had always helped him through things, and here he was leaving them on their own. They were always the one to be there and listening and helping him clean himself up and put his pieces back together. He felt bad for not really considering the fact that, somewhere under all those layers of clothes, there had to be at least a little emotional vulnerability. 

So he started baking shit, the only way he could keep busy and stay sober and stay within helping range. It didn’t really help the gnawing guilt in his chest as much as he would have liked, but it gave him some sense of purpose. The next morning, he knocked gently on the door, after finding it locked, and left a plate of muffins. 

He came back a few hours later to find the plate emptied, the word “thanks” scrawled on a scrap of paper in Certo’s small handwriting, and a door with its lock still engaged.

—

Their old regulation pistol tucked into their belt, their old uncomfortable uniform pants, their jacket, a little worse for wear. They looked at themself in the reflection if the window. It brought back nothing but bad memories, nothing but stress, but they looked close enough to any other Captain. 

The stiffness in their shoulder, no doubt caused by getting bit, limited the movement of their arm. That might cause problems if there was any hand-to-hand combat, but they didn’t think it would affect their aim with a gun. The bruises on their face would be hidden by their helmet, as would the stitches along their jaw. As long as nobody looked too closely, they would blend right in. 

It would be easy, in and out. They could use the key bracelet Caleb had stolen to get into the computer system, find out what they knew. What was uncertain was what would happen if they did, in fact, know something about them. 

Certo made a soft noise inside their helmet, looking away from their reflection towards the door. Leaving would be difficult, they’d have to find a new ship for one, but if it meant Caleb was safer they would do it in an instant. 

Caleb looked up from his holopad in surprise as Certo made their way quietly into the main living space. Even more unusual, they ignored him completely, moving into the navigation room without even giving him a glance. He stood, seeing them punch in some new coordinates and feeling the ship hum to life. 

“What are you doing?” Finally, they looked over their shoulder at him, still saying nothing. Just staring with that blank black visor. When he tried to look at the navigational instructions, they hit a button without looking away from him, and the screen went blank. 

“Are you leaving?” He hated how small his voice sounded, like a little kid’s. Certo walked past him, towards the airlock, but he dodged in front of them, blocking the way with his body. 

To his mild surprise, they stopped in front of him instead of just plowing right through him. They loomed, looking down, hands loose at their sides. 

“They might know about me,” they said, very quietly, “and that puts you in danger.” Their voice was rough, raspy sounding even though their helmet after nearly a week of disuse. 

“Who cares?!” Caleb wanted to punch something. He knew it was a stupid thing to say; he couldn’t go up against the full force of the military. But still, he had to try something. Still blocking the doorway, he threw his arms wide. “You can’t just leave! What are you even going to do, storm the headquarters?”

He heard them sigh inside their helmet, and they reached out to very gently ruffle his hair. His arms dropped, partly out of surprise. 

For a moment, they rested their hand on top of his head, watching his face, and then they gripped his skull so they could move him out of their way. As they ducked into the airlock, they punched a button and the doors locked into place behind them. 

They shrugged, and made an apologetic gesture, then punched in a code on their side of the airlock. The light in the ship flashed red for a moment, and a mechanical, gender neutral voice told Caleb that the ship was in a lockdown. 

“Oh FUCK OFF,” he yelled at the ceiling. None of the doors to any of the airlocks would open, communications were almost entirely down, the helm wouldn’t take his commands, even after he kicked it. 

After about twenty-four hours, he thought about going on a bender, He had more than enough to snort his way through into the next dimension. It was tempting, to get back at Certo for leaving him behind, and it would distract from the worry clawing its way up his chest. Maybe he would shave his head, or give himself a really ugly tattoo, just to show them. Guilt prevented it in the end, the guilt he already felt and the guilt he knew he would feel afterwards. 

So he spent the next while cooking furiously and eating barely anything. Cakes and muffins and cookies and loaves of bread piled up across the countertops and filled the pantries. The ship’s 3D printer nearly ran out of organic material. 

In the few moments he wasn’t rolling or measuring or kneading or sleeping, Caleb worried that Certo wasn’t coming back. That they had been killed or they had just left him by himself. 

And then they came back, sooner than he had expected, which wasn’t saying much considering he was half sure they would get themself killed. One second he was in the kitchen, throwing a glass upwards repeatedly, the next Certo was snatching it out of the air and setting it firmly on the sink. 

He was so glad to see them he couldn’t even really get mad. What did piss him off was that they didn’t even tell him what had happened, just walked past him and into their room. Though, they did leave their door open. 

They sat with their back against their bed, legs curled to their chest, helmet facing down. The room was dimmed, the only light coming from the nearest star outside. 

Cautiously, he sat next to them on the floor, careful not to move too suddenly or touch them by accident. Their body language looked relaxed enough, they looked nearly asleep in fact, but he knew them well enough to see through it. 

“Is that a new jacket?” It was hard to tell in the dimness of their room, but they thought it looked newer, fewer scuff marks and threadbare patches on the joints. 

They nodded once, slowly, and let their head fall back against the side of their bed. Caleb watched as they gradually uncurled, resting their forearms on their knees and letting their gloved hands dangle loosely. 

“You’re going to be alright, right?”

He knew it had to be just a trick of the light, but for a moment he thought he could see their eyes glinting at him through the tint of their visor as they nodded again.


	6. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of Certo's background, more or less, up until they meet Caleb

They had just been a kid, barely decanted and still able to fight and kill for their commanders. Their commanders who had taken care of them, taught them that it was ok not to be a girl or a boy, plenty of aliens didn’t fit into the binary and Certo was barely human anyway so how they expressed themself didn’t really matter all that much. Their commanders who had brought them up in war meetings and who had presented them as the future of the war, an expensive and unethical and highly illegal but potentially strategically advantageous future. 

“Take a step forward,” one of them had said, a hand pressing hard against their back, her teeth flashing bright for the higher ups. She was their main handler, an Admiral with dark blue skin and only an approximate knowledge of how humans worked. Her ineptitude would have been amusing if she hadn’t been making so many decisions. 

Certo had been 2, had been about 16, when they realized that they were just as much a threat to their commanders as their commanders were to them. When they realized they could fight back, pushing against years of indoctrination to try to bring the great big war machine to its knees. 

She had gripped their hair, hard, jerking their head back so they were forced to look her in the eye. “Remember who you belong to, cadet,” she hissed, “we made you, and we can unmake you, just like that.”

Certo hadn’t retorted. They wanted to point out that she belonged to someone who could unmake her too, but instead they had ground out a “yes, sir” and saluted. 

Certo had been 6, about 20 years old when they wondered if they were ever finally going to start to do something. By that point they had seen war, the real war that tore cities down and took their friends away, and they were done. Nothing seemed to matter, there was no way out that they could see. The only light at the end of the tunnel was the laser at the end of a gun barrel. 

They slept with one of their fellow officers' wives as soon as they got back to a command station, more out of frustration than anything. She was a nice lady, nice enough to make Certo feel guilty about using her as an outlet. 

Nothing real was getting done, nothing changed in the system itself. They were just another small cog in a galaxy-wide machine and even if they brought down the people responsible for them, the war would continue. 

She showed up again, about a year later, after Certo’s work started flagging. “This war will end once we win it,” she assured them, running a palm down their cheek, “and, really I don’t see the issue, this is what you were made for.” Suddenly, harshly, she gripped their jaw, holding their head still. “Remember who you were made for, Captain, and how much you still have to lose.”

“We all have people to answer to,” they spat, “even you.”

It was not entirely certain if the people responsible would ever actually get punished, but the fear of discovery seemed real enough. Certo got attacked one night on their way back from a bar with some guy, two burly people who, once they had been bloodied enough, admitted that they had been payed off. The next time more people ambushed them, they were alone, and things didn’t turn out so well for them. Certo stopped going out so much after that. 

Fear started to fester in them, too. The food in the army canteen was too dangerous, so was the drink, and none of their friends ever seemed less than completely loyal to the great cause. The great cause that they had seen leave whole planets behind wastelands and billions of people refugees. 

Deserting turned out to be easier that they had really planned for. Digging out the tracker hurt like a bitch, sucking all of their credits out of their account was extremely conspicuous, and getting themself assigned to an outer planet took some work, but then they just hopped on some transport ship. Just hopped on at the last minute and left everything behind. 

“Where’re you off to?” The shipowner was eyeing them up, they could tell, from behind his glasses, taking in their military uniform and their covered face and their nervous fidgeting. 

Certo tapped their bracelet, giving him more credits than they probably should have. “Somewhere urban.” Trying to bring the authority back into their voice. “Whatever’s on your way.”

In a sudden moment of terror, curled on their seat, they hoped that their commander would call them somehow. Hack into the ship, perhaps, and call them back home. She would say that it was alright, that Certo was just going through a rebellious phase and everything would be forgiven if they just went back to the base and went back to their work and went back to the war. 

Nothing happened, and they curled tighter into themself on the uncomfortable transport ship seat. As soon as they hit solid ground they bought a ship and left again.

Mercenary work seemed the next logical step in their decent. Whenever possible they tried to help the rebels, or at least whatever underdogs they could find, but they had thrown away their chance to do anything substantial, to change the system from the inside. 

And once the wanted posters went up, and once they saw the size of the bounty on their head, they knew there was no going back. The fantasy that they had still vaguely held onto of being safely welcomed back evaporated. 

Still, they had their trump card, stored in every strand of DNA in their body, and the data chip in their helmet. They’d have to keep running, sure, but if they ever got a real chance they would blow the whole thing open. No time ever seemed to be right, but they swore to themself that they would pull the trigger one day. 

When they came across a ship of drug runners, they had already been having a bad day. Certo had woken up more anxious than usual, certain something was about to go wrong, and then their ship was waylaid, hijacked and forced to land at some shitty base. 

They were sure that the group was just trying to rob them, get enough money for a new shipment, or press gang them into running drugs for them. 

“If you let my ship go right now, I’ll just leave,” they sighed into the comms, wishing they could rub at their eyes through their helmet somehow. Some things had to be sacrificed for safety, they supposed. 

A stream of swears came through from the other end, and they sighed again, rolling their neck unhappily. It was settled, then. 

Certo stood in the middle of the base, breathing hard, about an hour later, tossing a spent gun to one side. It had helped, somewhat, with their bad mood, to take it out on a bunch of scumbag drug runners. They had been pretty disorganized, most of them had been high; it hadn’t been hard to kill all of them. 

Still, Certo nursed an injured shoulder, and their torso would be developing some nasty bruises. The fingers of their good hand felt around the hole in their jacket from the knife, testing the edges, which were fraying already. Inside their helmet, they frowned down at the state of their jacket, standing in the middle of what seemed to be the group’s living space. 

There was a whimper from somewhere. They whipped their head up and around, cocking it towards the source of the sound. A basement, they realized, deep enough to block heat signatures. Holding their pistol in their free hand, they carefully kicked the door in the floor open and made their way down the steps.

The smell hit them, even through their helmet’s scrubbers. Drug dens seldom smelled better than complete shit, but this basement was really something. 

A figure sat, huddled against the foot of the bed, looking up through matted air as Certo ducked into the room. Their eyes widened behind their visor, and they moved closer, only to freeze as the kid flinched, hard away from them. 

”Are you okay? Fuck, I knew these guys were scumbags, but...god, fuck. How long have they had you down here?” The kid looked up at them, terrified. 

"I don't know." He whispered, quickly looking away, down at the ratty bedsheets. Certo saw bruises encircling his throat, and if they hadn’t already killed everyone in the base they would have gone through it again. 

He was just a kid, obviously abused, and looked about half out of his mind on some drug or another. All skin and bones and bloodshot eyes. But there was still some spark there, Certo could see it, something that hadn’t been crushed out of him. 

They crouched down next to him, keeping their movements slow and controlled. One gloved hand reached out and touched his ankle softly, finger looping under the heavy metal cuff and testing the give. Scar tissue had already started accumulating around where it sat, old wounds giving them more of an idea of how long the poor kid had been stuck there. 

”Christ. Let's get this cuff off you, huh? I won't hurt you. I promise.”


	7. Certo has issues too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes they have a freakout and that's just relatable (also this is like half done but whatever lol)

They curled tighter on the couch, clutching their head to their knees and trying desperately not to spiral. Everything they thought about came back around to the looming threat over them, the ominous cloud filling their helmet and choking their lungs. Hands they knew weren’t there tugged at their skin, gripping at their upper arms, their chest, their thighs, squeezing their neck. 

“Hey Certo.” Caleb flopped onto the couch beside him, voice raspy from smoking something surely. Without the strength to look at him, Certo keep their head tucked into their arms. 

He was having a hard time and they didn’t know how to help him; the parenting books didn’t really apply sometimes. They squeezed their eyes shut behind their visor and hoped his attention span would run out. 

He moved closer, cushion dipping with his weight, and started to lean over onto Certo. Most of the time they could handle it, shove down the crawling feeling across their skin to make sure he was more comfortable. But just the feeling of his head on their shoulder sent their brain into overdrive. 

“Don’t touch me! Stop touching me!” Certo stood so fast they almost fell over, uncurling suddenly from the couch, shaking. It wasn’t clear to them if they had shouted or just thought the words, and Caleb’s reaction didn’t really give any clues. 

Nothing was certain and they weren’t even in control of their own body. Their hands repeatedly clenched and unclenched, frantically trying to get some sort of feeling back. Something cold made its way up their spine. Their teeth were starting to tingle, their tongue going numb. They hoped Caleb couldn’t hear them panting inside their helmet. 

Caleb, who was looking at them suddenly afraid. Who had shrunk back when they had stood so suddenly and was looking at them with shining, red-rimmed eyes. Who was looking at them with an expression that broke their heart even more than it already was. 

He obviously needed help, he always needed help with something, and they only sometimes knew how to help him. Living with him, taking him in, had made them realize how sheltered they had been growing up inside the military. How bad it was on the outside, outside the benevolent reach of the imperialist regime. 

Usually they were good at holding it in, taking a step back from everything that was building up on their shoulders and keeping it from crushing them. 

But they couldn’t just bottle it up. The helmet over their head was the only thing standing between them and a total breakdown, the only thing protecting them from the outside world. Gloved hands, numb hands that they weren’t entirely sure were their own, pulled down at the rim, pulled their collar higher, scratched at any exposed bit of body armor they could find. 

The pressure against their body felt good, felt real and present and cut through the white noise filling their head. They were as good as dead, they knew it for sure. Pain, maybe, would help more. One hand gripped the wrist of their other hand, hard, fingers digging in as if tying to find a pulse. There was none. 

“Certo?” The noise made them flinch, made them freeze. Hot breath filled the inside of their helmet, but their teeth chattered. Caleb was watching them, eyes wide. 

Thoughts ran through their head too fast to hold onto. Everything was dying and they were dying and they weren’t even a person and they couldn’t ever change themself or anyone else, even though they tried so hard, they really did, but everything they did came out to nothing, and their hands were going numb. 

Opening and closing their mouth, trying to figure out a response that they could actually vocalize was void. Even trying was useless. 

They curled up under a blanket with their helmet still on. They had turned it onto a mode they had created, that blackened the visor and blocked any incoming noise. Cycling the CO2 back through the airway at a higher rate than normal helped a little, with the numb teeth and the tingling fingers. 

When they had been younger the anxiety had been worse, sure, but much more nebulous. Now Certo had more to worry about, more attacks coming from more places and less control over it all. Curling more tightly, they held their palms hard against their neck, under the rim of their helmet. 

They missed home, as fucked up as that felt. They missed being able to see people they liked and they missed not having to make decisions all on their own and they missed him and they missed being safe. They didn’t particularly miss murdering children and invading planets. 

Being inside their helmet left them alone with their thoughts, curled tightly in their blanket, but the exhaustion was finally catching up, just in time. It was too late to try to distract themself from the anxiety, so passing out was the next best thing. 

In the morning their head throbbed, and sleeping with their helmet on had given them a pretty bad crick in their neck. Sweat had made their skin clammy and disgusting inside their armor, but they couldn’t scrub at the feeling through the material. Every inch of them, inside and out, was disgusting and rotting and fake. 

A hot shower didn’t really help. Certo stood under the water, head pressed hard against the wall, eyes closed so they wouldn’t have to look at themself. One hand scrubbed hard at their scalp, the other idly rubbing their eyes. Though they weren’t one to cry in the shower, or in general really, guilt gnawed up their chest and their nose itched. 

Slowly, methodically, they cleaned every part of their body armor, sitting on the floor of their room in a sweater and shorts. Breaking it apart into its pieces and cleaning them carefully before putting it all back together. It was something to do that wasn’t trying to come up with some bullshit apology to Caleb. 

God, Caleb. On the one hand, they knew that he needed some serious help, and his coping mechanisms helped him, but at the same time they knew it wasn’t their job to fix him, and smoking everything under every sun was just going to get him killed. He needed to at least want to get better to be able to get better, and they couldn’t just order him to do that. Well, they could try, but it probably wouldn’t work. 

They dropped the microscrub brush so they could press their palms against their eyes. Parenting books could only get one so far, it seemed. They allowed themself just a moment more of thought before forcing themself to turn back to their work. 

Just as slowly and carefully as they had cleaned it, they put their body armor on, checking all its joints and plasticine parts for cracks or tears. It had been a ritual in their earlier days, one that had quickly fallen out of practice when they had picked up a kid. 

But then they were satisfied with it, and with nothing else to do they stood awkwardly in front of their bedroom door, their helmet in their hands. They needed to go apologize, and eat, and get things done like make bombs and contacts with people for new jobs. 

Someone, they assumed Caleb, knocked loudly. Certo jumped, quickly shoving their helmet on and clicking it into place. For a moment, just a moment, they hoped that someone had come onto the ship with the intent to kill, just so they wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath of their shit. 

But it was Caleb, standing just outside of their door in some full length pants for once, chair wet from a shower. Certo stared down at him for a moment, hands dangling at their sides, horribly unprepared. He raised his eyebrows, leaning back a little. 

“Sorry I snapped at you,” they started before he could say anything, “I was having…a rough time.” A good thing they didn’t have to look him in the eye with their helmet on. 

“I honestly thought you were possessed or high or something, so this is the better alternative, really.” The attempt at humor was very much appreciated, but Certo still held their distance. Hands gripping hard, trying vainly to replicate the same pressure that had grounded them before. 

“I just—I just have things going on too,” they told him, pushing the words out before their fear closed their throat again, “I can’t always put everything to the side to help you when you won’t even help yourself, and I’m not always going to be here to pick up your pieces for you.” 

The words sounded softer in their head but they were harsh coming out of their mouth. Caleb blinked at them and they pulled their head back, carefully away from him. 

“Alright,” he said, slowly, “I think that’s fair.” He didn’t seem mad, or freaked out really, and it was a pleasant surprise. Having serious conversations with him happened once every few months, if Certo was lucky. 

“I’m sorry that I’m—“ They shook their head slightly, pressing their helmet into the palms of their hands, wishing they could rub their eyes. “—that I’m not a very good communicator, and I’ll try to work on that.”

“Yeah, alright.” Caleb didn’t sound too bothered. “Now, c’mon, I’ll make you some food.” He didn’t even raise his hand to pat Certo on the shoulder or anything, just turned and walked down the hall.


End file.
